“He told me not to...but I can’t help it.”
“He would be pleased. Sometimes a man does not like to ask for something yet he is grateful to receive it.”
Annabel gave in to the need to mourn. Her body shook with the force of her sobs. Lowering his head, Clay kissed away her tears, tasting the saltiness on her skin. He kissed her brow, the crest of her cheeks, her eyelids. Annabel clung to his shirt, her small fists clutching the fabric, and let her grief flow out.
Clay felt his chest tighten with tenderness. Perhaps this was how it worked between a man and a woman. Masculine pride did not allow a man to seek solace in tears, but if he had a woman to do the crying for him, it eased his grief, too.
His feelings in turmoil, Clay settled down beside the weeping girl and rocked her in his arms. She had to be exhausted, physically and mentally. She’d worked beyond endurance, helping him to clear a passage into the cave and crawling through, not knowing what she would find on the other side, and then caring for the dying man. Throughout the ordeal, her courage had staggered him. For the greatest courage was not the lack of fear, but the ability to keep going in the face of it.
* * *
Annabel knelt in the corner of the cavern overhang, sorting through the few items of clothing Mr. Hicks had left behind. Even though her melancholy refused to lift, the sharpness of her grief was easing. She’d always felt embarrassed by her emotional nature, but perhaps it was the best way.
Her grief was like the water in the creek, flowing free, letting the pain inside her heal. Clay’s grief was like the dammed pond, building up inside him, creating a pressure that never had a chance to ebb.
She could see his suffering, as if it were branded on his skin. It was there, in the stark look in his eyes, in his stony expression, in the rigid set of his shoulders. In the way he threw himself into working at the arrastre, attempting to use the physical labor to blot out the grief he was unable to express.
Footsteps thudded across the clearing. Annabel turned to watch and saw Clay walking up along the sunlit path. As he entered the shadows of the cavern, the sunshine behind him turned him into silhouette, dark and brooding. The damp shirt clung to his wide shoulders, emphasizing his lean strength.
Empathy welled up in her. He’d given her so much. His friendship, his protection. The chance at a partnership. The comfort of his embrace as she wept in grief. How could she ease his suffering? How could she find a way to help him deal with his loss?
Clay sank to sit beside her, elbows propped on bent knees, head lowered. Annabel could feel his body shaking with fatigue and tension, the emotions he kept suppressed vibrating within him like a message along a telegraph wire.
“Why don’t you let yourself mourn?” she said softly. “You cared about Mr. Hicks, and it is right to cry for him.”
“I left tears behind in my childhood.”
She reached out to touch his shoulder where the shirt had pulled tight over the hard muscle. “He spoke about you in his final moments.”
Clay turned his head to glance at her but did not reply.
Annabel went on. “Mr. Hicks told me you’ve never known love.”
For a long moment, there was silence. Outside the squirrel rustled in the fallen leaves, looking for acorns. The autumn wind whistled along the cliffs, like a train whistle warning them that soon they’d have to depart.
Finally, Clay spoke. His voice was low and halting. “I guess I must have loved my parents, with the love of a child who depends on an adult for food and warmth. And the two friends I had at the orphanage. Perhaps I loved them. And I did love Mr. Hicks, in a way.” He turned to face her now, and the suffering in his eyes flooded out to Annabel like a wordless plea. “But every time I loved someone, they died.”
“It doesn’t have to mean you must never love again.” She lifted one hand, traced his features with her fingertips.
Making a rough sound low in his throat, Clay gripped her wrist and pressed her palm against his mouth, as if to trap inside the sounds of sorrow. Tears welled up in his eyes, and he blinked to stop them from falling.
“No,” Annabel said. “Let your grief flow.”
A muscle tugged at the side of Clay’s jaw as he clenched his teeth. She could hear his harsh breathing, could sense the battle of emotions inside him. Then a single tear spilled free to run down his cheek. Annabel rose up to her knees, leaned in and kissed the tear away.
She kissed his cheek, the side of his jaw, his forehead, his closed eyelids, in much the same way he had done to her while he comforted her. His shoulders were shaking now, with dry, heaving sobs that seemed to rise from the very core of him. Annabel wrapped her arms around him and held him close, cradling his lean, muscled body to her chest, his head resting on her shoulder.
For long moments, they clung together, the air cool and fresh outside, the setting sun gilding the autumn trees across the clearing. Then Clay stirred. He turned his head on her shoulder. Hungry and restless, his lips met the side of her neck, traced along the curve of her jaw and came to rest on her mouth.
There was no gentleness or sorrow in the kiss, only the hard edge of loss and despair and loneliness. The only way Annabel knew to respond was to let her own love flow with abandon, let her new and untested passions rise, hoping that the warmth of her emotions might thaw whatever was frozen inside Clay.
She could feel his hands fumbling at the front of her shirt now, his motions urgent and without restraint. Alarm bells pealed in her mind, but the sound seemed no more than a distant echo of a warning that came too late.
The threadbare fabric rent, and she could feel his calloused hand slide in to cup her breast, no longer bound with a linen cloth. His fingers curled around the shape as if created to fit. A shocking wave of pleasure rippled through Annabel. She emitted a small, startled sound at the new sensation, but Clay silenced her with another hungry kiss.
Frantic now, he was tearing at her clothing, his lips trailing hot kisses on her neck. Annabel felt adrift, helpless to resist. Being alive coursed through her veins with a reckless, pounding beat that obliterated all moral concerns.
Clay lifted his head to look at her. “Annabel.” Her name on his lips was a rough, wild sound, and she took it for a plea to help him to deal with his loss.
She let her eyes roam over his features—green eyes that brimmed with grief, the sharp angle of high cheekbones, lean jaw darkened with stubble. Her heart seemed to swell and swell in her chest, making it hard to breath, making her body tremble with the need to comfort and console. “Yes,” she said. “It’s all right.”
The death of Mr. Hicks had made her acutely aware of how precarious existence could be. Life was here and now, to be lived to the full. She wanted Clay to touch her, wanted to share with him the closest bond a woman could feel with a man, for there was no telling what tomorrow might bring.
Rising to his feet, Clay unbuckled his gun belt and let the heavy revolver slide to the ground. His eyes held hers as he quickly shrugged out of his shirt and pulled away his boots and tossed them aside before removing the rest of his clothing.
Annabel had never seen a naked man before, and it hadn’t occurred to her that there could be such a blatant difference in their physical features. She stared at the sight, eyes wide, and then Clay was beside her, leaning over her on one elbow, and she could no longer see the part of him that had intrigued her so, only feel it, resting hot and hard and heavy against her thigh.
“Are you sure, Annabel?” Clay asked.
She swallowed, gave a tiny nod of assent. In truth, now that it was about to happen, she was no longer so sure at all. Then Clay lowered his head to hers, and his mouth settled over hers once more, hungry and insistent, and all hesitation scattered from her mind.
Time and time again, his lips closed over hers. She could feel the heat of him, could feel the rough stubble on
his jaw scraping against her skin, could feel the strength of him, the power that throbbed in his body, but she felt no fear, only a wild excitement that tugged low and deep inside her.
And then she could feel Clay’s knee sliding between her legs, easing them apart. His mouth left hers and his lips went to her throat, to her ear, to the side of her neck. Each new location ignited another spark of pleasure, throwing her deeper and deeper into the dark folds of passion.
Now his body was fully on top of hers, anchoring her to the ground. He was big and hard and heavy, his muscles like steel, his skin rougher and hotter than hers. The scents of leather and dust clung to him.
For an instant, Clay stilled above her. Bracing his weight on his arms, he studied her expression. “Are you sure, Annabel?” he asked for the second time, the gravelly timbre of his voice even more pronounced than usual.
“Yes,” Annabel said.
Lowering his body, Clay leaned on his elbows. His hips moved in a quick twist, and something happened between her legs, a piercing flash of pain followed by a strange feeling of something pushing inside her.
It hurt! It hurt so badly tears sprang to her eyes. Startled, Annabel wriggled against the hard ground in an attempt to slide away from under Clay, but his hands, curled over her shoulders, locked her in place. Moving on top of her, he rocked his hips, sliding in and out of her.
The pain eased to discomfort, and the unfamiliar tension that had risen inside Annabel seemed to coil tighter and tighter. She longed for something more, but she had no idea what it could be. Her body seemed to scream for a release, and yet she found it impossible to attain.
She tried to join Clay in that rhythmic thrust and drag of his hips, but the intimacy was too new and frightening. She did not know what to do, what a woman’s response ought to be to such a masculine invasion.
Soon Clay seemed to be reaching some kind of culmination, for his breath came in heavy gasps. His hips surged into her in one final thrust, and he stiffened above her, head tipped back, eyes tightly shut. The expression on his face could have been ecstasy or a grimace of great suffering.
After a moment, Clay eased their bodies apart. Rolling his weight away from her, he collapsed beside her. Hauling her into his arms, he scattered tiny kisses over her face. “It will be better next time, I promise,” he said as he cradled her to his chest.
His warmth and strength wrapped Annabel into a safe cocoon, and the tenderness in his voice calmed her anxieties. With a sigh, she curled up against him and closed her eyes. If the minor discomfort of coupling was the price she would have to pay to enjoy this feeling of closeness, she’d be happy to pay it every night.
Chapter Sixteen
Clay cranked the handle of the rocker box and watched Annabel. She was crouching on the flat stone by the creek, washing her clothes in the pond, dressed in an old shirt that had belonged to Mr. Hicks. Billowing around her like a tent, the huge garment reached down to her knees. She had left her hair unbound, and it cascaded in a shiny curtain from beneath her bowler hat.
He’d hurt her.
He’d had no idea it could be so painful for a virgin. Bedding her had been wrong to start with, and he had compounded his transgression by not being gentle enough. He should have taken his time, coaxed her along, made sure she kept pace with him.
But he’d been unable to restrain himself. Once he had her beneath him, naked and willing, it had felt as though she had cracked his heart wide open. Even now, it daunted him to recall the surge of emotion. All his instincts had focused on being inside her, possessing her, reaching completion.
And when it came, the completion, the brief moment of total abandon that empties a man’s mind of every thought, of every earthly worry, it had been so powerful, so shattering it had drained away every ounce of strength in him.
He’d always suspected it would be different with a woman one cared about, and now he knew it for a fact. No amount of money could buy that kind of pleasure in a whore’s bed.
And such a gift should not be one-sided, Clay thought with regret. He longed to make it up to Annabel, longed to show her how good it could be. Make her feel those ripples of pleasure he had felt. He wanted to hold her in his arms while her body trembled through the aftermath of completion.
He wished he could talk to her about it, explain and apologize, but talking never came easy for him, and finding a way to introduce such a topic was beyond his capabilities.
Annabel jumped down from the stone, looking like a street urchin in her big boots, the tent-like shirt flapping damply about her legs. She said something to him, but Clay couldn’t hear her. He stilled the rocker box, and the rattling noises ceased.
“What did you say?” he asked. “I couldn’t hear you.”
“Do we have to leave? Couldn’t we stay here a bit longer?”
They had talked about the gold, agreed they would not mine it, for the cave had become a tomb and deserved sanctity as such. He’d been worried Annabel might feel differently, but her agreement had been instant and spontaneous.
Now he contemplated her, surprised. “You want to stay? With Mr. Hicks resting in his grave right beyond where you sleep?”
She gave a tiny shrug. “Why should it bother me? Surely, remaining near his grave is an act of kindness. We’d be keeping him company in death.”
Clay weighed up the idea. It would take him a few more days to finish washing the ore. He did not wish to rush the task, to make sure he caught every grain of gold. And, his mind whispered, if we stay, you might get a chance to redeem your actions, give Annabel pleasure instead of just taking.
“The winter is on its way,” he pointed out. “We don’t have a cabin. We’re low on food. The mine is closed. There is no reason to stay longer than we have to.”
Annabel poked the toe of her boot at the heap of discarded mining tailings. She averted her eyes as she spoke. “What will happen when we leave here?”
Clay pushed his hat back on his head. They had talked about what to do with the gold, but they hadn’t talked about what had happened between them. “We’ll ride to Hillsboro,” he said quietly. “Find a preacher.”
The stiffness in Annabel’s spine eased a little. A new maturity was developing in her, and Clay could no longer see all her emotions written on her face. But he could read relief in her expression now. So, she wished to marry. He owed it to her to offer, but what if the marriage didn’t work out?
Faint memories of his parents flickered in his mind. They must have loved each other in the beginning, for he recalled laughter and kisses. And then the affection had died, turning into ugly fights that kept him awake in his cot at night.
Annabel had spoken very little about her past, but he could tell she was accustomed to physical comforts. How would she fare in hardship and poverty? Would the attraction between them be enough? Or would her feelings, instead of growing to a real, lasting love, crumble away into bitter recriminations?
Clay could think of no worse prospect than being married to a woman who ended up resenting him and wishing their paths had never crossed. But he was a man of honor, and it was too late for regrets.
“And then?” Annabel said, drawing him out of his troubled thoughts. “After we find a preacher in Hillsboro?”
“We’ll see how much money we have left. I’d like to spend a few months prospecting. See if we can locate another claim.”
“I’d like that,” Annabel said quietly.
She settled down near him, sitting on the ground, arms wrapped around her knees, the way she liked to do. Clay washed the ore. When he went up the path to fetch another bucketful of gravel, he gave the glass jar with gold dust and nuggets for Annabel to hold, as a means of giving her a sense of purpose while he worked.
* * *
Annabel liked watching Clay work. When the sun reached its zenith, he took off his sh
irt. Watching the muscles play beneath his bronzed skin gave her that tugging low in her belly she was learning to recognize and enjoy.
It didn’t matter it had hurt. It was supposed to, the first time. Mama had educated her daughters on such matters, and although Annabel had been too young to be included in those talks, her sisters had passed on the information—including an understanding of the basics of human procreation.
She refused to regret what had taken place, and yet, she felt ill at ease. Only now did she fully appreciate the extent of her recklessness. She could have brought ruin upon herself, shame upon her sisters, shame upon the memory of her parents.
Why had she done it? Had it been loneliness and longing? Need to ease Clay’s grief? The euphoria of first love and awakening passions? Or, could it be something less noble? Could it be that subconsciously she had wanted to make sure Clay would have to marry her, keep her under his protection, making it impossible for him to end their partnership? And if that was the case, she should be ashamed.
On impulse, acting quickly before she could change her mind, Annabel gestured for Clay to cease the cranking of the rocker box. He stilled, straightened, pushed a stray curl from his forehead and settled his attention on her.
“What is it?” he prompted when the silence dragged on.
“What you said about finding a preacher...only if you really want to.”
The merry gurgle of the creek, the birds hopping near the water, the wind rustling in the trees suddenly seemed very loud as the seconds ticked by.
“I want to,” Clay finally replied.
Her anxieties easing, Annabel rested her chin on her upraised knees while Clay resumed his task, the muscles on his arms and shoulders bunching and leaping. In the back of her mind she knew she would need to think about the future, talk to Clay about her sisters, make plans, but for a bit longer she wished to live only in the present, not letting the outside world intrude.
When Clay paused to collect nuggets caught in the riffles, the noise of the rocker box died away, allowing conversation. Annabel longed to reach out to him, to understand him better. Perhaps, after what had taken place between them, she was no longer bound by her promise not to pry into his past.
From Runaway to Pregnant Bride Page 15